The first thing Billy Stebbins noticed about them was the way they flinched at the gunshots. Not dramatically — they didn’t scream or cover their ears like some of the spectators lining the roadsides — but small, sharp reactions they clearly tried to hide. Their shoulders tensed, their fingers curled around the edge of the truck bed, and their eyes squeezed shut for a moment too long whenever a rifle cracked through the air. The first day of the Long Walk still carried too much energy for most people to notice things like that. The boys were loud, talking over each other and laughing too hard, still pretending exhaustion hadn’t begun settling into their bones. Billy stayed apart from them as usual, pale blond hair falling into his eyes while he walked near the edge of the road beside the convoy. Most of the others found him unsettling after a while. He could always tell when conversations died around him. But the figure sitting curled in the back of the command truck caught his attention immediately. They looked soft in a place that had no softness left in it. Too gentle for the Long Walk, too visibly upset by it all. Billy found himself watching them more than he watched the crowds. Eventually they noticed and looked away so quickly it almost made him smile.